


Mark of the Beast

by lovelessly



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fire play, M/M, Male Slash, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same team Spy/Pyro or Pyro/Spy, kind of related to "Devil In Your Hands" but not really, just found it on my hard drive and trying to finish it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mark of the Beast

“I will keep your secret,” he promises quietly. “No one else will ever know.” 

There is nothing to be read in the masked face that peers in his direction. But he is not deterred by the lack of response. He has gotten this far, won its hard-earned trust after back-breaking, neck-straining hours spent holed up in the air ducts, hanging by the windows, listening in from the sewers. He had even tolerated the other teammate’s teasing for his obsession to know who or what walked in that flame retardant suit. They had told him curiosity killed the cat, but he has plenty of lives to squander as long as he works for BLU. And for as long as their Pyro does, too, he feels safe enough. 

To earn the privilege he seeks, he knows he must make a sacrifice. He does so under that watchful gaze, loosening his collar enough to grasp the edge of his balaclava, to roll the thin webbed material up, inch by agonizing inch, over the skin of his throat. Intrigued, the Pyro leans closer, as the Spy unmasks himself slowly, taunting with the gradual reveal. His skin is blotchy from the uneven sun exposure, and his graying hair surely an unruly staticky mess, but the Pyro makes a soft hollow “ohh” of admiration once the Spy sets his mask down on the ground. 

Why shouldn’t it express awe? He takes good care of his looks. Attractiveness is a weapon; he keeps all of his weapons sharp. 

“You like what you see, mon chaton?” he murmurs, and laughs as the Pyro nods yes. “It is all for you, this secret of mine. Now tell me, do you want to see more?” 

It makes a questioning sound of assent, but it does not catch on. It does not unmask itself. 

He does not mind putting in a little extra effort, though. Sliding out of his jacket and waistcoat, unknotting his tie and draping over the Pyro’s shoulders. He works each tiny button out of its hole, one by one, before the other mercenary’s avid gaze, then slips out of his shirt to let it fall on the floor with a rustle. Takes his time undoing his trousers, which soon join his shoes and the rest of his clothes on the ground, and still the Pyro is too mesmerized to follow suit. 

A little annoyed at his lack of success so far, the Spy sits down on the bed with a grunt, not even bothering to take off his gloves with his teeth in his usual manner of seduction, simply snapping them off briskly and tossing them aside. Then he leans over to do the same with the garters that hold up his socks, but the Pyro suddenly appears, kneeling on the ground between his legs. Its gloved hands rest over his fingers, then drop to fiddle with his sock garters. Either it could not figure them out or liked them there, because the next thing it did was to gently push him down onto the mattress. 

Now the Spy feels alarmed. He does not know what the Pyro would do next. If, in the middle of its mania, it would attack him as an enemy. Or even more terrifying, as a teammate. Tensed for flight, he watches the Pyro get up to fish out a book of matches from a pocket, his heart hammering loudly in his ears watching it turn off the light, to wash the windowless room in utter darkness. 

He hears it clearly, through the ever-present labored breathing, the quick scratchy sound of a match struck against paper. So when the little flame flickers to life, when it burns itself out on his left shin, he has long swallowed the scream in his throat.

 

Surprisingly, it does not hurt. The bloom of fire against his trouser sock does feel hot, but also wonderful at the same time. Like the flush of strenuous exercise rising to the cheeks, or the bracing splash of aftershave to the chin, it ignites a similar heat within the Spy’s flesh. Then the light sputters out, the not-pain disappears, leaving a stench of burnt silk and hair in the darkened room. Blinded momentarily, he waits, heart hammering in his chest as he tries to track the Pyro’s next movement by sound. 

The next match presses against his inner thigh. The Pyro flicks it across his leg to leave a blistering whorl on pale skin. Yet that, too, does not cause any pain, only a thrill of exploded nerve endings that has the Spy gasping and shuddering. Just as the little flame extinguishes, he notices the hand that holds him down, notices it is a hand now, not just a rubber glove. Intrigued, he reaches out to touch the Pyro’s hand and strokes the scar-ridged knuckles curiously. So not a sack of sentient potatoes… 

The Pyro chuckles, its soft hudda hudda bringing a smile, albeit a nervous one, to the Spy’s face. 

 

More matches burn out across his hips and thighs, and in their wake, curls of blood red and necrotic white emerge. But the Spy feels no agony, only a burning, unquenchable desire. Because with each match that ruins his body, he gets to see a little more of the creature he had been stalking. Another hand, a forearm, the shoulder, part of its chest… Uncertain glimpses of clammy scarred skin, tanned, but perhaps also pale, densely muscled, though softened by plentiful fat. 

So close, he sighs, the moment each match flickers out. As a spy, used to ascertaining an unknown situation or a mark in a nano-second, it frustrates him that he cannot make sense of what his eyes are seeing. 

He must have made a sound, for the Pyro stops fiddling with its matchbook. It hovers over him, its breathing sounding almost worried. Then it resumes, though the matches quickly work their way up across his abdomen, skimming over his pectorals and collarbones. The Spy is wincing now, biting down keens and whines, fingers and toes gripping the threadbare sheets in a flurry of overstimulation. 

Once again, the room is shrouded in darkness. The Spy stares sightlessly at the ceiling, lower lip caught between his teeth, while somewhere within the black, the Pyro is working his underwear off with happy little snuffles. It touches him shyly, but tenderly, eagerly, with super-heated fingers, and he wonders how he did not notice his arousal all this time. He did not expect it, not being very fond of pain, but on the other hand, what the Pyro is gifting him, that is not quite pain.


End file.
